Harry is determined. And when he is determined, things usually happen.

Draco has been watching it progress all week. Slowly, things have been tumbling further and further out of control. Potter had an idea. Not long ago, maybe a month, and now that he's set it into motion there isn't a whole lot Draco can say that's going to get in his way, short of withholding sex – which just isn't going to work for him and, to be honest, if he discounts the possibly life-threatening ramifications of this venture it's all quite amusing to him from the sidelines.

Or, at least, it is until he's hoodwinked in as well.

But, he's getting ahead of himself. It all started when Potter found his pureblood sports encyclopedia. He hasn't even opened it since he was six years old, had forgotten he owned a copy really. But it was there, hidden at the bottom of one of his multiple boxes labelled 'Taking' for the move.

And there it was too, right at the beginning, slapping Harry in the face with bad ideas as soon as he turned the page. 'Ainginein.' It's not that Draco isn't happy that Potter's interested in finding a new interest, that he isn't drowning himself in unsolved cases. It's more the nature of the game. He's sure he'll be forgiven if he isn't keen on the idea of his boyfriend – whom he has a rather substantial investment in – attempting to fly through blazing, rotating barrels at high speeds.

But Harry does like to see his ideas through to the end. And the end, in this particular case, happens to be at the 2015 Quidditch World Cup where, surprise, surprise – because Draco has the worst luck in the world – a tournament is being held to reawaken old sports on the first night of the competition. To promote respect of the elders. Like fuck! Bagman just wants to line his pockets some more and anyone who doesn't see that is a bigger idiot than Weasley after half a bottle of the good stuff.

Except Harry, who is needlessly enthusiastic about the actual sport. It's safe to say it's reignited his competitive streak. If only he had hidden that book better, thrown it out even rather than bringing it along in the move. Then he wouldn't be in this entire mess.

This 'mess', or the current little mess in the big picture of the catastrophic mess, involves Draco sitting on his old Nimbus broomstick, which Potter had manhandled out of the attic that very morning, and glaring at Fleur Delacour as she calls a foul. Which is preposterous, how can you get hurling yourself, terrified, through a flaming, spinning barrel wrong?

He had suggested they try another sport as they had mounted up. Tennis perhaps? Draco knows Harry is keen on the normalcy that muggle sports bring, even if they aren't as exciting. He had even offered to play it with him as a pair. And there were novice competitions all the time! Coaching even, just around the corner in the muggle part of their little town. But Harry was having none of it. He'd simply dug his heels in, metaphorically and physically, and flicked himself of the ground, calling for the barrels to be lit simultaneously.

And Draco? Well, Draco had followed him up into the sky like a right little Hufflepuff because he likes his sex life and Harry does eighty percent of the cooking.

Then there's the subject of teammates as well. Fleur is only present because they have hijacked her garden and most of her private beach for their practice - the only other garden big enough to accommodate them is the Weasley nest and it was unanimously agreed upon that Mrs Weasley was to know nothing about this until the last possible second – and they needed a referee.

And of course Weasley himself it there, often forgetting his fire-proofing protection spell and soaring, smoke trail in his wake, straight into the waves, whooping gleefully. Because everyone knows being set on fire is the epitome of fun. Obviously.

He's convinced the twin buffoons it's a clever idea as well but at least they're keeping their spell work updated for each other – although apparently watching ones little brother go down in flames is too amusing to put a stop to.

And then there's the Gryffindor boys: Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan have both signed up for the team building exercise. Not a surprise. They aren't brilliant on brooms, not like Draco and Harry are. Not natural born flyers but at this point Harry's just looking to make up the numbers and enter. He had never said anything about winning and Draco is certainly going to remind him of this when he inevitably turns bitter when they come in last place.

Which makes seven. But the rules say you need eight people. And that means that somehow, somehow, Harry has managed to rope himself one of the Holyhead Harpies' Beaters, one Victor Volechuck, into tagging along. It's absolutely preposterous. They don't even know him! But Ginny is on a team on the opposite end of the country to the Harpies and has a friend of a friend of a reporter of an agent who said he might be interested and now here he is.

Idiots. The lot of them. He's no better for being suckered in though and he knows it. He could have put his foot down but he didn't. These days, he quite likes going along for all the rides Harry is willing to provide. There's always something exciting going on in Harry's life. Draco doesn't like being left out any more.

Of course, they do come last. Outstandingly, spectacularly last. And Potter is predictably bitter and sulking when they get back to their tent. But Draco fixes that before the last fires of the night are even out by riding him until he screams like it's his last night on earth.

The next morning Weasley's ears are bright red, everyone in their immediate vicinity looks like they have had less sleep than they would wish and all is right with the world.